Instructor Desmond's voice thundered through the cavernous training hall, sharp and commanding, slicing through the low murmur of anticipation like a blade through silk. "Each of you, pick a training puppet and practice swinging your swords at it. Don't stop—even if your hands fall off," he barked, eyes burning with an unnerving intensity as they swept over the gathered students. The heavy scent of sweat and polished wood thickened the already stifling air, making each breath a labor.
The students exchanged uneasy glances, a collective sigh of reluctant acceptance rippling through the group. Without a word, they moved swiftly toward the scattered training puppets—wooden mannequins carved with crude but effective combat postures, designed to absorb blow after blow. The scrape of leather boots on stone floor and the dull thuds of weapons against wood mingled in a grim symphony. The boys stuck close, selecting puppets near one another, as if proximity might offer some shared strength against the coming ordeal.
"Did you see that takedown?" Asher whispered, eyes alight with a mixture of awe and apprehension as he gestured subtly toward where Desmond had earlier demonstrated his skill—swift, brutal strikes that seemed almost effortless. The memory of that lethal precision sent a thrill coursing through him, mingled with a slight chill.
"No, did you see that backflip? It was insane," Ethan grinned, though the tightening ache creeping up his forearms was a sobering reminder that this was only the beginning. The thrill of challenge pulsed in his veins, undimmed by the growing discomfort.
Nick, ever the realist, shook his head with a tired smile, the corners of his mouth tugged down by exhaustion. "You two are way too caught up in the fancy moves. We're not here to watch acrobatics. Let's just get this over with."
The boys gripped their wooden swords tightly, muscles tensing as they began to swing. The air filled with the sharp swish of blades cutting through space, punctuated by the dull thuds as wood met wood. Their movements were deliberate at first—each strike a measured test of control and precision. But as the minutes dragged on, a dull, relentless burning began to spread through their wrists, crawling up their forearms, fingertips growing numb. The once-steady rhythm wavered; their strikes lost their edge, becoming half-hearted and uncertain.
"How much longer do you think this will go on?" Ethan muttered to Nick, grimacing as he forced himself into another swing despite the protesting muscles and stinging joints.
Nick's face contorted with discomfort. "No idea… but my hands already feel like they're on fire. I can barely grip the sword properly anymore." His voice carried a note of growing desperation.
"As if that's bad," Asher groaned, lowering his sword briefly to shake out his stiffening fingers. "Mine feel like they're falling off. This is pure torture!" He let out a long, ragged sigh, frustration and pain etched deep into his features.
Suddenly, a sharp thwack echoed sharply—the unmistakable sound of a wooden sword striking flesh, a jarring crack that silenced the hall for a brief moment. Instructor Desmond's voice cut through the thickening haze of exhaustion with brutal clarity: "I said don't stop swinging that sword until I tell you to." His eyes locked onto the offending student, cold and unyielding.
The pace was unrelenting, crushing the students' stamina. Movements slowed, strikes lost their force, and the strain was evident in every grimace and labored breath. Despite the clear pain, Desmond's gaze was merciless. Any hesitation or faltering was met with swift correction—a strike from his own wooden sword, a sharp reprimand, or a pointed glare that seemed to strip away any thought of slowing down. The repetitive rhythm of the sword swings morphed into a tormenting cadence, the line between training and punishment blurred.
"We're done with this class already, and we still have one more before the sun sets," Asher muttered under his breath, barely audible over the unending thwack of wood on wood. His voice was hoarse, strained from the effort and fatigue.
"What kind of torture is this? No horror worse than this exists," Asher groaned, rubbing his sore, swollen hands as if to will away the pain. "I can't even feel my fingers anymore. This is beyond brutal."
Ethan let out a tired chuckle, wincing as he massaged his aching palms. "Honestly… I kinda enjoyed Desmond's class. Even though my hands feel like they're about to fall off." His words were a surprising mix of exhaustion and quiet satisfaction, like a warrior's pride in surviving a harsh trial.
Nick and Asher exchanged bewildered looks, eyebrows raised in confusion. "Enjoyed it? What's there to enjoy about constant swinging and the unending pressure? Doesn't it feel like a complete waste of time?" Nick asked incredulously, shaking his head.
Ethan shrugged, eyes heavy with fatigue but shining with quiet determination. "I don't know. There's something satisfying about pushing through the pain, about knowing you're improving. It's brutal, sure, but it feels like progress—like I'm actually getting stronger." His voice held a stubborn conviction that surprised even him.
Asher rolled his eyes, though a faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Alright, weirdo. But forget it—what's our next class? And please, let it involve less swinging."
Nick rubbed the back of his neck, flexing his stiff fingers slowly. The small movements sent sharp jolts of pain through his forearms, but it was a relief after the monotony of repetitive strikes. "I think it's Magic Art," he said quietly.
"Sweet. How hard can that be?" Asher's grin returned, though tempered by exhaustion. "Think the academy will line up a bunch of healers for us like last time?"
Nick chuckled softly, stretching his aching arms in slow, deliberate motions. The tension in their muscles was almost unbearable, but the thought of rest was still far off. "We'll find out on our way there."
Gathering their swords, the boys prepared to leave the training hall. Muscles screamed in protest with every movement, but despite the brutal trial they'd endured, their spirits felt oddly buoyed. The day was far from over—and the final challenge before sunset awaited them, promising new trials and, perhaps, a glimpse of the strength they were forging with every aching swing.